I love to read, but this hasn't always been the case. I recall with extreme distaste, horror even, English lessons at high school on the hill at Muswellbrook. Novels were dished out three or four times a year - goody goody, more Shakespeare! At 13 or 14 years of age, how could Shakespeare stack up to Enid Blyton's Famous Five Adventures?
I'd tuck into another chapter of some exciting childhood adventure, neglecting the tattered school novel, wondering if other kids really bothered to read the issued books. Just prior to exams, or when completing assignments, I'd struggle through the first chapter (or bits of it), a few pages from the middle, and the last chapter - surely that would get me through; it usually did.
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Rarely do I read fiction now, but if I do, it must contain adventure, mystery, authentic history, and a little bit of lust is always tantalising. Notice I didn't say love - love and lust don't necessarily go together in the same sentence. If I'm not hooked after a few pages, it's not worth reading. And the thicker, the better - when I'm reading an engaging book, I just can't put it down, but at the same time I don't want it to end.
But I'm into non-fiction now - I'm too old for fanciful adventures; I want the real thing - honest, raw, detailed, real-life adventures.
I have just finished reading The Woman on the Mountain by Sharyn Munro. What an inspirational and thoroughly interesting read. I will read it again, and then my daughter and friend are waiting in line to read it.
A woman's life, living alone on an isolated mountain, surrounded by creatures and nature. Her struggles, her triumphs, her achievements, her shortcomings. The author's intelligence, passion, patience, empathy, determination and resourcefulness shine through in her story filled with humour, courage, raw honesty and depth. I am in awe of her and her achievements.
Some of my favourite passages:
p 176. . . . . Even though I'm nearing 60, and there are many signs of old age - hair greying, sight and memory failing, joints creaking, flesh drooping and wrinkles deepening - I'm not old. I'm still the same me, it's just that, sometime in the last ten years when I wasn't looking, my smooth outer shell was exchanged for this cracked and saggy one.
I think that living here keeps me young. I don't know how long I can stay here as I really do get old, for if I were physically feeble daily life wouldn't be possible. Contrary to popular mythology, the simple life is not found in the country but in the city, where you simply pay your bills and press a button for everything you need, and you don't have to know how any of it works or be able to fix it yourself. . . . .
p 210. . . . . 'It's no use,' I snivelled pitifully as I backed away, nursing my elbow, 'I could never start these things, not with my wrists.' Leaning against the doorway, I cursed the generator - 'And as for you, you stupid battery!' - and then I noticed that the key switch on the generator was turned to OFF, not ON. Having switched it to ON, I yanked the pull cord twice, and the generator leapt into life. Oh, you stupid woman!
I haven't admitted that episode to anyone before; it's so typically what males expect of women that I cringe at fitting the bill so well. How many times have I seen red, when, after describing my problem with a domestic machine to a technician, he says, 'Have you checked if it's turned on at the wall, luv?'
I'm claiming a deteriorating mental condition called old age.
I must be learning a little from the disasters I keep having, but it doesn't feel like it. . . . . .
and more about the mystery of machines:
. . . . . Not wanting to strip the thread - which, like ripping pool table felt, is another of those things men think women are likely to do - I took it back to the shop, with the bottle this time, when next I went to town. He had clearly sold me the wrong fitting.
The man heard me out, smiled, and took the items from me. He gave me that look - pitying, knowing - and screwed the fitting on with no trouble. 'Reverse thread, luv.'
I threw up my hands and went into a rave about why weren't they all standardised and how was anyone supposed to know which way was on or off if they kept changing it . . . but his raised eyebrows halted me. He jabbed his finger at the brass top piece.
'See that nick?' he said
I saw it.
'That means it's reverse.'
I could have kissed him, I was so grateful for being let in on the secret.
p 108. . . . . As inspiration for my young rainforests, just over my ridge-top boundary is the patch of virgin brush that appealed so strongly when we first bought this place. It shelters on the cool southern side, fiercely protected by a belt of tall stinging nettles and raspy wild raspberries. I venture in there rarely, and never by myself.
In there it is another world, awesome yet fragile. In there the silence commands respect as, hushed and inadequate in the dim green light, I breathe in its mushroom smell, peer at its surreal fungi and lichens, giant snail shells, bird mounds and scrapings. I tread lightly, yet still sink into the thick compost of leaves, slip over mossy fallen trunks. In there lives a Giant Stinging Tree of vast girth, hollow and ancient, but mostly it is hard to name this forest of tree roots, buttresses and trunks, laced with ropey twists of vines, their leaves but silhouettes far up in the canopy.
P 136. . . . . Birrarung had given me a taste of, and for, living on my own. I decided that I would try once more to resolve the problems with my partner, but if that was unsuccessful, I'd make my way in life alone, physically as well as emotionally.
As I eventually did. That leap was only possible because my grief caused the usual priorities, like my need for security and continuity, and my concern for my future, to fall away into nothingness. What counted was being honest with myself.
P 84. . . . . Then came the hard part. All the roofing materials ready, I went to get Dad. He had to move in now, because neither door nor window of this cabin would open: my roof would close it forever. As I carried the grey plastic sealed box I could hear small shifting gritty sounds - tiny bits of Dad, more real than ashes.
He fitted snugly in his cabin. I draped the hessian over the wire. I couldn't see the box any more. He was gone. I hated doing this. 'Sorry,' I sobbed, as I worked the cement into the hessian.
Interment is so . . . final.
When it was done, I sank onto the rock nearby, relief filming over the hole in my heart as the clearing echoed to what is known as 'a good cry'.
Rest in peace, Dad.
P 87. . . . . The quoll and I respect each other. Like me, she's a compromising creature. It's not that she's becoming tame - far from it! But she does tolerate me and my pitiful scratches of civilisation in her extended territory. She lets me into the shed to fetch things, stays out of sight as I hold my nose and forage about. I usually call out 'Coming through! It's only me!' as I enter. If we surprise each other, she silently shows her teeth and disappears. I acknowledge this as her claimed space; I don't want her to move elsewhere and be at risk.
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I smiled often and even laughed out loud, and I had a few tears. It was an absolute joy to read.
and Sharyn's blog
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